Never Doubt I Love (40 page)

“I'll wager,” breathed Falcon very softly, “they are—” He halted, jerked back, his eyes widening, and roared an explosive sneeze.

Lady Buttershaw watched in alarm as another sneeze followed the first.

Moaning, Falcon groped for his handkerchief and moved away from her, dabbing at his eyes.

A small ginger and white cat wound between his ankles.

“Get it … away,” he cried hysterically. “Why bust they always cub after be?”

Snarling with frustration, Lady Buttershaw made a grab for Charlemagne. As though sensing the violence of her intentions, the little cat sprang sideways.

No mean actor, Falcon's voice rose in a horrified howl, and he staggered back. “Get it away!”

In hot pursuit of the cat, Lady Buttershaw essayed another snatch.

Falcon reeled against the ante-room door and wrenched it open.

White as death, a pretty girl he guessed to be Zoe Grainger stood by a sofa. Lady Julia was at her side, an arm about her and the other hand holding a dagger. Just as white, and obviously terrified, Cranford stood as if frozen.

Zoe thought numbly, ‘'Tis the gentleman in the portrait…'

Charlemagne, eluding Lady Buttershaw and scared by her bellowed demands that Falcon not go “in there,” shot after him as he reeled inside, racked by uproarious sneezes.

Cranford seized the moment and hurled himself at Bracksby. The two men crashed into the sofa, which went over backwards, throwing Zoe to the floor and sending her ladyship into a violent collision with Sir Gilbert Fowles.

“Your
damnable
pets, Julia!” trumpeted Lady Buttershaw, plunging into the chaotic room.

Cranford rolled clear, got to his feet and helped Zoe stand.

The scared Charlemagne leapt into her arms.

Bracksby wrenched out his sword and turned on Falcon, who retreated, sneezing helplessly.

Cranford limped to Falcon's aid.

Fowles tore a small pistol from his coat pocket.

In that same split second, Zoe heard a sound she recognized. She thought fleetingly, ‘I'm sorry, Charley,' and tossed the cat at Fowles even as he aimed the pistol at Cranford's back.

With a yowl, and the feline instinct for self-preservation, Charlemagne hooked his claws into Fowles' shoulder.

Fowles also yowled and made a strong effort to beat away the unwanted hanger-on.

There came a thudding rattle. A large black and white shape hurtled vengefully at the villainous human who appeared to have upset his cat. Quite impervious to anything that stood in his path Viking did not deviate from it and Rudolph Bracksby gave a startled shout as he was staggered and fell to his knees.

Fowles screamed, and disappeared under Viking's attack.

Cranford reached for the fallen pistol, but behind him, Bracksby, moving with smooth agility, was already regaining his feet, sword in his hand and murder in his eyes.

Zoe snatched up a small marble statue of St. George and brought it crashing down on his head. “I cannot like violence,” she said. “But you are a very nasty man.”

Cranford laughed breathlessly, and held out his arm. “And you, little one, are a true heroine! You have saved the day!”

Lady Julia was trying to pull Viking off Fowles.

Fingers crooked, Lady Buttershaw started towards Cranford.

“No, really, my dear Clara,” gasped Falcon between sneezes. “Your nature is … too generous for such … vulgarity.”

She halted and stared at him, rather pathetically irresolute.

Morris came in, supporting a drooping Elsie Gorton, and holding a pistol jammed against Hackham's spine.

“Rats,” he complained. “I see I've missed a good brawl. I found this poor lady crawling down the stairs, so—”

“Oh, thank heaven!” cried Zoe, running to her.

Kneeling beside the moaning Fowles, holding her torn gown closed, Lady Julia turned such a malevolent glare on Cranford that he instinctively stepped back a pace.

“Fool!” she said balefully. “Do you fancy you've won? Run to the Horse Guards with your tales! I am very sure that Maria already has our copy of the Agreement. Without it, who will believe you?” Her gaze took in Falcon and Morris. She added with a smile that chilled Cranford's blood, “'Tis past time, I think, for us to administer—
châtiment quatre.
And this time, with finality!”

There was an instant of taut silence.

Wiping his eyes, Falcon drawled, “Which confirms you as a traitor to your country, madam.”

“Only losers are traitors,” she riposted. “And, I promise you, we will
not
lose!”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, and with incredible volume, Lady Buttershaw lapsed into screaming hysterics.

It was the last straw for Morris. He sprinted for the door, the rest of them following hurriedly.

The entrance hall was empty except for a white-faced Arbour, who backed away from the victorious little group.

Cranford said urgently, “We must find Owen. With that damnable Agreement in our hands, we'll have our proof!”

*   *   *

Luigi, whose name was actually Louis, straightened from searching the garments of Mr. Travis Grainger and handed his mistress a large flat packet. He said in French, “It proclaims itself to be the Last Will and Testament of a Monsieur T. Grant. But it is, I think, that which you seek, mademoiselle.”

The lady Zoe knew as Maria Benevento took the packet, still watching the unconscious man who lay on the sofa in her cosy parlour. Also speaking French, she said, “He looks very bad. I trust you did not hit him too hard, Louis?”

“It is that he has been ill, mademoiselle. He will live. But in case he regains consciousness, he is securely bound, I assure you.”

She nodded, and tore open the packet. A glance was enough. “Yes. Then we are done here. Hurry to the stables and order up my coach.” She quailed as a brilliant lightning flash was followed at once by a great peal of thunder. “Ah, but this horrid storm, it comes back. If you see Greta on the way, tell her to make haste. One might suppose I had sent her to Edinburgh instead of to collect my necklace from the jeweller!”

“Mayhap the repairs are not completed, mademoiselle.”

“They were to have been completed yesterday!” she said, in one of her rare but fiery displays of anger. “If they have failed, they will hear from me, I promise you! And I shall have the repairs made in Paris. I would be gone from this city as quickly as it is possible.”

He glanced at her obliquely as he left. She looked tired, and her eyes were haunted. This had been, he thought, not a happy time for his beautiful lady.

Left alone, Maria went in search of Petite's little coat. “This beast of an English climate,” she murmured to her small pet as it trotted after her. “How glad I will be to escape it.” She took up the coat, and then stood for some moments gazing down at it sadly, and seeing instead a proudly held head, a pair of smiling blue eyes.

Petite abandoned hope of a walk, curled up on the bed, and within a minute was fast asleep.

Sighing, Maria returned to the withdrawing room and went at once to the sofa. Despite the sunken cheeks and the pallor of illness, this young man's resemblance to Zoe was marked. He lay so still that for a panicked moment she thought he had died, and she was relieved to find that he was still breathing steadily. She took up the packet as thunder pealed again, and started to pull out the papers it contained.

A hand came over her shoulder and twitched the packet from her grasp.

With a shocked cry she whirled around.

Owen Furlong watched her gravely, raindrops scattering from his cloak as he flung it back and slipped the agreement into his coat pocket.

She whispered, “Owen…!” and thought that she never had seen such sadness in a man's eyes.

He bowed slightly, “Mademoiselle Maria Barthélemy, I believe.”

“Maria Benevento Barthélemy,” she corrected, her chin lifting proudly.

Keeping his eyes on her, Furlong walked quickly to the sofa and leaned down to feel Grainger's cheek.

“He's alive,” she said. “A blow on the head; nothing serious. I could not let my Zoe's brother be harmed.”

His smile was faint. He said as if very weary, “Do you know, I would not believe it. When Tummet came, I—I nigh strangled him for daring to…” He could not finish the sentence, but he regained control quickly, and managed to ask, “Was it for France, my dear? Or for your brother?”

“Both. Owen, Owen! My darling, do not let this come between us.”

“Will it? Did you ever care a jot for me, lovely one? Or was I just a convenient source of information?”

“Ah, how can you say such things? From the moment we met—” She stretched out both hands imploringly. “I love you! Come with me!”

He stepped away from her touch. “And give up my country?”

“Your country is doomed. These people— Owen, there is such power at work here. Such ruthless power. Your government will fall, and—”

He said quietly, “I will fight with my last breath to prevent that, Maria.”

She gave a muffled little cry and covered her face with her hands. And she was so lovely, so ineffably beloved. His eyes blurred with tears, and he seized her and crushed her against him. And with all his heart, all his future in the balance, cried brokenly, “My love, my precious love! Stay here and marry me. I'll see that you are not named in connection with this ugly business.” He kissed the silken dark hair so tightly pressed under his cheek, and murmured with passionate intensity, “Only let me spend the rest of my life caring for you; cherishing you. 'Twould make me the proudest man in the world, Maria. 'Tis very soon, I know, but … I have never truly loved before. Surely, you know it. I have no need to tell you how I adore you.” He tilted her chin upward, and saw tears gleaming on her cheeks. “Beloved, you are weeping too…”

“Yes.” She groped blindly for her muff and pulled out a handkerchief. Dabbing it at her eyes, she said, “I weep because … I love you, my fine brave English gentleman. And I wish—with all my heart that I could accept your—most impetuous—offer, but—” The handkerchief fell, and she stood straight, a small pocket pistol pointed steadily at him. “But—I cannot,” she said sadly. “All my life my brother has cared for and shielded me. I love him … too much to betray him. Dearest Owen, you hold his life in your hands. You must give me back the Agreement.”

For a moment he stood in silence, gazing at her. Then he said with quiet but infinite despair, “No, my love. I will see to it that you have ample time to get away, but your brother's ambitions are a threat to all I am sworn to defend.” He turned to the door. “I must get some help for Grainger, and—”

“Stop!” Her voice shrill, she cried. “Owen—for the love of God, do not make me—”

With his hand on the latch, he turned for one last yearning gaze at her. “I shall always remember,” he said wistfully, “how very beautiful—”

The pistol shot cut off his words.

Half-blinded with tears, Maria watched in anguish his shocked look of disbelief as he was slammed back against the door. He took a stumbling step towards her, then crumpled and fell. She hurled the pistol away, and ran to kneel beside him and pull frenziedly at his cloak. A small crimson stain already marked the shoulder of his coat. He opened his eyes and whispered her name. Weeping, she tore out his handkerchief, formed it into a pad, and thrust it under his coat. “I aimed for … your arm,” she sobbed.

He smiled wanly, and his white lips whispered, “I … love…” He sighed, his eyes closed, and he lay still.

Maria's tears splashed his quiet face as she bent to kiss him and smooth back the thick, powdered hair. She retrieved the Agreement from his coat then, and, standing, took up a cushion and knelt again to put it tenderly beneath his head.

It was thus that his friends found him, ten minutes after Maria had gone.

*   *   *

Two afternoons later, Lady Buttershaw said sternly, “I will tell you, Julia, that it does not befit your station in life to be such a watering pot!”

Lady Julia Yerville leant back on the sofa in the ground-floor withdrawing room, and raised a handkerchief to her eyes. Her frail hand trembled as she wiped away a tear. She said in her gentle voice, “I—I know, Clara. But I was so fond of—of the dear child. I cannot credit—” Her voice was suspended.

Lord Hayes exchanged a grim glance with Lieutenant Joel Skye, who sat beside him.

Standing before the blazing fire, Rudolph Bracksby put in sharply, “Is this really necessary, gentlemen? We have told you how Cranford attempted to elope with Miss Grainger, who was in Lady Buttershaw's care at the time. And of the violence he and his friends”—he threw a contemptuous look at Cranford, Falcon, and Morris, who stood near Hayes—“visited upon us when we attempted to restrain him.”

Skye said, “These gentlemen have also told us their version of the affair, sir, which—”

“Which is a lot of poppycock,” roared Lady Buttershaw at full volume. “I do not scruple to tell you, my lord, that the gel is a lying little baggage who was seen cavorting—
in public
—with that lecherous young rake”—she stabbed a finger at Cranford—“in the
full light of day!
As for this fanciful nonsense about some kind of treasonable secret society scheming to topple the government—I am appalled, my lord! APPALLED I say, that
anyone
would dare use the name Yerville in connection with such a plot! Down through the centuries the Yervilles have stood for, fought for, and died for all that was decent and fine and honourable about this nation! Our very
name
is a by-word for integrity! I did all in my power to remove that ungrateful gel from an unhappy home. In return she abused our hospitality, deceived my poor sister, who is all too willing to believe the best of everybody, and brought shame and
degradation
upon this house! How you could—”